Scars
by VampireQueenAkasha
Summary: TFP: Knock Out takes a moment to clear his head over the recent events that had brought only his own personal pain. On the way, he find himself a kindred spirit in the most unlikely of places. M for language.


**Scars**

**Disclaimer: **This came to be a bizarre idea I came up with loosely based on a dream I had. Just a little something that helps Knock Out connect with another individual through an unlikely, brief moment. Nothing weird comes out of this, I assure you. No human/robot stuff.

_"Because nobody goes through life without a scar."_

-Carol Burnett

_"Life is suffering."_

-Buddha

**By: VampireQueenAkasha**

_"Can you believe what the Autobots did to me?"_

-Knock Out

_Nemesis_

Knock Out was driven to a sense of near hatred.

He hated how his life had taken an unfortunate turn for the worse lately. With Breakdown's death as one failure, his battered, broken body as another, and missing his chance to retrieve the relic as a third seemed to be one too many mistakes after another. And now, with Soundwave's need of repair of his visor and Megatron's blatant ignorance to his even worse damages, Knock Out learned that he couldn't stay a second on the Nemesis any longer. He had to get out and clear his processor before he went insane.

He took a long, silent drive through the dark roads that night. With nothing around him to cause trouble or any grief, it was actually peaceful. He pulled near a seemingly abandoned warehouse and transformed, leaning against the building with a sigh.

"I don't understand what I'm doing..." he whispered.

"Join the club."

Knock Out's optics opened and he glanced around for the source of the voice. He looked down and noticed a human leaning against the wall of the warehouse. A female who was probably about twenty-five in human years. She had a gray denim jacket on and loose fitting pants. Her hair was cut to the base of her neck and very short, almost in a masculine manner. Knock Out was mildly familiar with a lot of human ways and noticed too that she had a bottle of alcohol in her hand and a cigarette in the other.

Her eyes reflected no signs of fear or shock at the sight of him. They were dull, almost black in the dim glow of the street lights beside them. Her features seemed to constantly reflect perpetual boredom. She took a puff of her cigarette and studied him. It was possible that she was too inebriated to care about anything.

"I don't need your input, meat bag," Knock Out snapped.

The woman chuckled and exhaled a stream of smoke into the air through her slightly parted lips. "Well, it looks like you need something, big guy."

Knock Out made a gruff sound. He didn't say anything else.

"You look pretty rough. I'm not talking about your scratches either," the woman said.

"You're no image of beauty yourself!" Knock Out barked, insulted.

The woman was once again indifferent to his words. She shrugged with a chuckle. "Yeah. I've heard this ol' song and dance before. But it don't make a damn bit of difference to me." She took a drink from her bottle and gestured to him with one finger. "And it shouldn't to you."

Knock Out frowned at her. "You don't know anything about me."

"Not really, no. But I can tell we're the same just by looking at you," the woman replied, reaching into her pocket to produce a small lighter. She lit it and brought it close to her face, revealing in the dim light her man facial scars. When she smirked, it made the scars look somewhat eerie on her face. He could also see that she had dark blue eyes and her short hair was brown. "We both got our share of scars, bro." She shut the lighter and doused the flame. "It don't even matter who you are or what you are, there's similarities there."

Knock Out snorted. "It doesn't matter. We're never going to be the same. And when my people crush yours, it'll all be sweeter to wipe you off the face of the Earth."

The woman laughed drunkenly and held up her bottle. "I'll drink to that."

Knock Out's first thought was to consider this human fleshling insane; but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed that she was more realistic than he considered. "And why would you want your own world to perish?" he asked, his harshness gone.

The woman laughed loudly, a guffaw that nearly echoed down the empty streets. "I guess you're a lot more new to this planet than I thought, huh?" she said, "Have you ever taken a good look at things around here? People shooting each other for drugs. Babies being dumped in garbage bags. Father's raping their daughters and mothers beating their sons. Know what I say?" She gestured to him and paused for dramatic emphasis before laughing again. "I say let the whole shitter burn and the piles of shit with it." She gave him a half bow with her head. "If you're the one going to do it, then I bow to you."

Knock Out arched his optic ridges, intrigued somewhat despite his disdain toward her entire species. "What's your name, fleshling?"

"My name's Trish Jenner. But a lot of folks just call me Little Miss Scarface. Can you guess why?" she muttered, laughing softly again. She took another drink of her bottle. "What name did the Gods above curse you with anyway?"

"Knock Out."

Trish glanced at him before smirking. "I can see why. You're pretty easy on the eyes."

Knock Out snorted. "What?" he snapped, "I'm covered in scratches!"

"Yeah. But did you SEE what I drive over there?" He gestured to a battered, mud-covered 1988 Chevy Silverado pickup truck. "I drive THAT piece of shit all through town. But you're a class A vehicle my friend. A talking, class A vehicle." She giggled softly.

It occurred to Knock Out that clearly she was too drunk to even consider the fact that he was an alien being from another world. Maybe it did and she just didn't care. From what he knew so far of her, she didn't seem to care about anything.

Trish finished off her bottle and grimaced, holding it up to her face where a small droplet dripped down onto her nose in the process. "Uh-oh, all gone," she muttered, "Guess I gotta get more."

Knock Out rolled his optics.

Then, Trish smirked devilishly at him and tossed the bottle to the ground. It shattered into many pieces. "How fast do you go, hot rod?" she asked.

Knock Out blinked, stunned. "What? That's none of your business!"

Trish chuckled. "Hey, if you're slow as shit, that ain't my fault."

"I am not slow!" Knock Out bellowed, jolting straight. "If it's a challenge you want for speed, then so be it!"

Trish shrugged her shoulders with a sly smile on her face. "Okay, bring it on, big boy," she challenged, "Drive me to the liquor store as fast as you can. It closes in fifteen minutes. Think you're up to the task?"

O

Trish let out a glorious whoop into the night sky as Knock Out drove at top speed down the empty street. She had her head hanging out of his window. Knock Out was surprised at how much he actually felt relieved by this. To take a human flesh bag into his person and drive around at her request was something he would NEVER have done any other time, but for some reason, it took tension away to a lesser degree. To have even a lesser organism appreciate him felt unusual.

He actually felt...happy.

"You are one fast motherfucker!" Trish yelled, laughing, "This is better than my piece of shit truck!"

"Didn't I tell you, skin flake?" Knock Out said, chuckling. "Pure, raw muscle!"

They pulled up to the liquor store in question and Trish immediately purchased a six pack before stepping into Knock Out again without any form of decorum. They drove off with her alcohol and she popped one of the bottles open before taking a swig.

"No, no, I'm telling you!" she was saying in between drinks, "If that asshole can't appreciate you and what you do, that's his loss!"

"It's not up to me," Knock Out replied, "And your opinions make no difference either."

Trish let out a rather unflattering belch. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger, bro. I'm just calling it as I see it." She cleared her throat and sniffed before tilting her head. "So what do you do, Knock Out? What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a doctor."

Trish smiled. "Wow. That's pretty close to what I do!"

"You're a doctor?" Knock Out was skeptical.

Trish laughed and then abruptly turned serious. "No. I'm a janitor. I work at the hospital picking up after the doctors. So...kind of in the same zone...area...thing." Her voice fractured at the end and she let out a hiccup that followed with a belch. "Whew, hot dogs."

Knock Out sighed. "I have a job to do, human. Lord Megatron's commands are absolute."

"Sounds to me like he's an ABSOLUTE ass," Trish muttered, "You're as good as any one of those higher up pricks."

Knock Out's voice was surprised. "You really think so?"

"Yeah. You seem like a pretty cool dude. Can't see why they'd think otherwise. You're a doc and you got sweet rims. You're the package deal, bro."

Primus, she really was drunk.

"Shit, I'm the one with a piss-poor life," Trish murmured, her voice suddenly taking on a darker note, "You've never had to have your dad fuck you up since birth and have your mom look at you and say 'it was all your fault'. 'You deserved ever bit of it'. Or my favorite; 'He should have killed you'." She laughed bitingly. "The world's full of fucked up assholes waiting to ruin your life. Know what you do? You fuck them back. And you fuck them back hard."

"I...don't follow," Knock Out said.

"Sure you do. You're just chicken shit to stand up for yourself," Trish told him, with another bitter laugh, "My dad played touchy-feely one two many times and I cut off his fingers. I'm just saying that you need to take what you can when you need to. No assclown can tell you how to live your life."

Knock Out remained silent for a while.

"I guess we have a little more in common than I thought..." he finally said.

Trish leaned back and sighed. "Hey, listen. You can drop me off at my place. I'm tired."

Knock Out said nothing more as they pulled up to a dingy apartment complex and Trish climbed out. She staggered toward the building with a drunk laugh that carefully covered up her sudden urge to cry. Knock Out could sense it. She gave him a pat on his hood.

"Take care of yourself, Knock Out," she told him, "You're worth it."

Knock Out was confused by the kind gesture and watched as she walked away. He wanted to say more, but felt foolish and decided against it.

"Hey, go back to your place and take a good look at everything around you, bro." Trish called back, "You'll see what I mean."

Knock Out watched as she staggered through a door and was gone.

It was a shame that she wouldn't remember any of their conversation or this night when she woke up the next morning. Knock Out actually thought for a moment that he had found a kindred spirit among the fleshbags.

But then he remembered that it didn't make a difference.

They were all doing to die eventually. Maybe even he would.

So he drove away, returning to his life.

And just like her, he was still covered in his own personal scars. Some of them were never bound to heal.

_That's part of war, I guess..._


End file.
